A Sudden Rush
by kushtea
Summary: Post-Series 1. Mitchell is struggling with his blood-lust, but after giving in to the addiction he thought he had defeated, there is only one person on his mind. Hints of Annie/Mitchell. Rated for slight gore.
1. Chapter 1

It was 4AM. Mitchell felt the hard cold ground against his skin and socks as the hole in his sodden boots seemed to stretch with every step. He paused at the corner of the street, staring up at the pink house where he could imagine George was anxiously prancing around and Annie sat in the corner of the room, frequently getting up to make countless cups of tea. The thoughts of their angst made him frantically wipe his messy hands against his leather jacket, knowing the stains would not show against the black.

He breathed. Huffing out long desperate clouds of breath as he wiped his chin, the realisation of the past hour flashing before his eyes like an old movie. Dracula.

He shook out the image, it wasn't him, he had changed, at least he had been.

It had been a long late shift, endless hours seemed to pour on. The bitter sweet taste, relief, lust, desire. Mitchell ceased his thoughts until her face stopped appearing, and the guilt and shame stopped creeping up on him, making his hairs stand on end and his body shiver.

He begun again. Endless hours had seemed to pour on, and by 2:30AM all his senses were blurred and the blood lust, the need for the unexplainable and heart wrenching satisfaction for it's oozing pulse had consumed him. He could no longer mop up wet, hot, scarlet spills on deserted theatre room floors, or take blood from naïve, unknowing patients who put his heavy breathing and steady eyes down to exhaustion. Mitchell had tried, nobody, not George or Annie could argue that he hadn't fought his yearning for just the smell of the fresh, pure substance, for something that was so natural and essential for his kind. He felt his body repel as he remembered the feel of it against his teeth.

Mitchell had found himself staggering out of the back exit of the hospital, his eyes blinded by the starkness of the streetlamps although they were all that guided him towards the bus stop. He would have walked if he had known. He would have forced his way through the streets of Bristol if it had meant she wouldn't have been standing there innocently, awaiting a bus which would take her safely home as she had probably done everyday without fear of her safety or her life.

But he had brushed her shoulder accidentally, through the haze of his desperate eyes and she had laughed quietly when he had apologised vaguely. She had told him not to worry kindly and her gaze had strayed longer than it needed to as many of them did, she had smiled again, pushed herself forward and stuck out her hand informing Mitchell her name was 'Steph' sweetly.

But sweetness, kindness or sincerity meant nothing to him, not when his head was filled with memories of his last bite, and his taste buds were alive with the smell of the blood pulsing through her veins, not knowing that within minutes they would be spilling down his chin, rolling over his tongue or left splattered across the ground like paint against a canvas.

Mitchell had muttered a name, whether it had been his or not he couldn't remember, but she smiled so he figured it had been audible and realistic. And male. It would have scared her away if it hadn't, but at least something had. At least she was free. At least her heart still beat, and her future was not ripped from her soul as the skin had been ripped from her neck.

He didn't know what had happened after that. He had to hold his nose in an attempt to stop the scent from corrupting him even further, filling his minds with possibilities and temptations which he would later give in to. But he had continued talking, he had continued to bring her in, using his charm and wit and dark black locks to convince her that he was a nice, honest and likable man. He had tricked her like a cold-blooded murder would, just as he had done so many years ago in his hay day with Herrick to unsuspecting women who had been enticed by his dark velvet suit and striking black eyes. But Herrick was dead, and he had no one else to point the finger at other than himself, he could not blame an accomplice for his killings or a persuasive whisper in his ear because it was all him. He had done it all by himself. He was the cold-blooded murderer and always would be.

Flickering memories of his hand against the small of her back, the uncertain smile on her face, as he guided her into the alleyway claiming there was a café which served the 'best coffee in Bristol' just around the corner. She had believed him, she had trusted him because she had been naïve enough to think that she could live on trust alone, and that the world still had some sense of morality, heart and truth. But those were the three things that Mitchell lacked, although he had tried to disguise it in he, Annie and George's ploy to 'be human'.

Then he couldn't control it, the lust was incontrollable, and either he acted on his desires or he screamed in rage, misery and despair and she would most likely scarper. His teeth were grinding together now, killing for the firm suppleness of her skin between them as she rushed into his mouth and put an end to his suffering which had reached an unbearable peak. He was rubbing her arms softly, thriving of the texture and what lay beneath it waiting for him, he discarded the sudden rush of fear in her eyes and lunged into her.


	2. Chapter 2

Mitchell stared down at her pale and torn beneath him, littered with trails of her own blood which now flowed rich and satisfying through his body. He shut his eyes, as they begun to overflow with remorse and agony and he wished it was him who lie there in her place. He wished anything, anything to relieve the pain in his cold heart and his head, seeming to overpower the unstoppable force of the bloodlust minutes before and keep his knees buckling every time he tried to retreat until he was stumbling from the alley. Faces of Annie, George, Steph persisted in his head as he ran in the direction of home until his boots begun to wear out and a stitch formed in his chest.

Mitchell smoothed out his hair as he saw the kitchen light flicker off and the figure of Annie swan out of sight. Annie. His mind flashed with her reaction when she realised, because she would realise at some point exactly what he had done, the crime he had committed. How could she ever touch him again, even look at him. After all, she was dead and he was a murderer, anyone could do the math.

Mitchell sniffed cold air once, shook himself in an attempt to discard the circus of images, memories cart wheeling through his mind and walked steadily up the path. He fumbled with his keys, his hand shaking uncontrollably until they clashed to the ground like a soaring strike of awareness and the door swung open forcing Mitchell to crawl out of his mind and the voices inside it and into reality.

"Get inside...", George was a figure of colour and blurs, his face outlined with panic and then confusion, he paused, and then his voice was high and slightly inaudible, "…get inside Mitchell!"

"Stupid keys", Mitchell mumbled with his best attempt at a cool smile and trying his best to hide the battle unfolding inside of him. He secured his hat further onto his head, trying to shield his eyes which kept no secrets from the suspicious gaze of George, and Annie who was now darting behind him. They had found him out before and if he wasn't careful, they would do it again.

"What…", George gulped and narrowed his eyes, his hands falling to his hips with all too much femininity for a werewolf "…what, have you done Mitchell?"

The way George's voice rose and fell and emphasised itself in random and unnecessary places was suddenly grinding on Mitchell. He blinked away the irritation.

"Mitchell", Annie breathed, as he stared at her and saw the sudden rush of realisation flood her.

"Look at you! Look at you, Mitchell, what have you done, Mitchell?" George was gasping, his eyes wide and frantic as he froze in motion, waiting for some kind of response that Mitchell hadn't gotten so far as to think up.

Mitchell mimed out the beginning of words which disappeared silently into nothingness, as Annie stepped forwards. He reached out for her instinctively, longing for the reassuring and unusually comforting feel of her arms around him, she could make him better, she always did. But she brushed his arm away.

"It's your eyes", Annie said regretfully, her eyes searching his frantically trying to discard the explanation fighting its way into her possibility.

"Not the most obvious observation, considering he is splattered in…blood, oh god, Mitchell, oh you've…", George's voice trailed away, beginning as inaudible high pitched sounds and ending as pitiful whispers.

"Tell him he's wrong, Mitchell, you haven't, you haven't have you Mitchell, tell him!" Annie was almost screaming at him, pointing a wavering finger at his chest.

Mitchell touched the side of his face, his hands still shaking disobediently and brought his finger down to see it covered in blood like deep scarlet paint. His nose twitched at the inviting scent but could not detain the looks of shame, disappointment, George's fury and Annie's pity as he found himself unable to speak.

"Oh, Mitchell", Annie was gasping, beginning to step back from the situation, back from Mitchell and the love that had begun to wind itself around them both. George quickly rushed about in a jangle of keys and a swirl of his coat, pulling on shoes as he hopped towards the front door.

"Where are you going George?", Annie said quietly. George fiddled with the hands of his coat.

"Where is she Mitchell?"

"Near the hospital", Mitchell muttered, running his bloody hands through his hair, feeling its strands clotted in dried blood. Annie watched as his body shook and he trembled, and tore her eyes away unable to watch.

George scrambled to the door and paused to let out a sigh of despair.

"Mitchell, no! Mitchell… not again", George was crying.

"She doesn't work at the hospital, George", Mitchell said, the irrepressible and giddy feeling of new blood gone before it had ever come.

"I have to go and see her", George said before shutting the door and yelping as he possibly tripped over his feet. And then it was just Mitchell and Annie's intrusive dead stare, as she tried to hate and despise hi for what he had done but knew she couldn't. It wasn't possible. Nothing inside of her, inside the scarce empty hollow that she was could hate Mitchell, no matter what he did. He caught her gaze and shook his head slowly, his chest heaving as he struggled to speak.

"I'm so sorry Annie, I'm so sorry".

Annie walked towards him, holding her hand towards his chest where a heart should have been beating and thought she felt something inside of him. A sudden rush. Something only explainable by the foreign blood diving through his body. As close as Mitchell would ever get to being human. But what set him even closer to being human than the heartless life snatchers that would come before and would forever come after Mitchell was what Annie had seen in his eyes the moment he had entered. The remorse inside of him dimmed his eyes just as the fulfilment of blood shone them like diamonds.

"I know", She nodded reassuringly; "I know you are".


End file.
